Songs of the Storyteller
by andromeda's song
Summary: A collection of stories using song titles and/or lyrics as prompts. Stories featuring crime, drama, angst, humor, waxing poetic, romance... Established John/Sherlock, but as usual nothing too over the top. Also featuring BAMF Lestrade, overwhelmed Molly Hooper, protective Mycroft and more.
1. Alibi

One: Alibi (Thirty Seconds to Mars)

_No warning sign, no alibi_

_We faded faster than the speed of light_

_Took our chance, crashed and burned._

_No we'll never ever learn._

"Sherlock, calm down! I told you, there's no way that he could have done it, we've got him on CCTV at the time of the murder!" Lestrade watched the younger man pace around the room, his dark coat flapping agitatedly behind him as he went.

"And I'm telling you, Lestrade, there is no one else that could have done this except for that man!" Sherlock threw an arm out and pointed a long finger at the frozen image on the screen. "It all fits together…he's the missing link! Why can't you get that into your head?"

"Because he has an airtight alibi, freak," Donovan said, pointing at the computer monitor. "He couldn't have been murdering that girl because he was right here the whole time."

"Maybe he doctored the tapes?" John said. The words sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth, but there they were.

Sherlock shook his head. "Impossible." With a growl of frustration, Sherlock flung open the office door and prowled down the hallways toward the interrogation rooms, Lestrade and company fast on his heels.

"I can't possibly let you go back in there, Sherlock," Lestrade said as they approached the room.

Sherlock fixed the older man with a weighty gaze. "Lestrade, just give me five minutes. Please." Lestrade blinked at him a couple of times before shaking his head and saying, "You've got three." Sherlock nodded in acquiescence and entered the room, John at his heels.

"Ah Mr. Holmes… you and your boyfriend come back for another round of 20 questions?" The man—Peter Holmgren—leered at the detective and the doctor as they came in. He leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on the table, and began to inspect his dirty fingernails.

Sherlock and John ignored the question. "I would like you to tell us why you murdered Theresa Langley last night, Mr. Holmgren." Sherlock's rumbly baritone betrayed none of the anger he felt. John stood at parade rest by his side, staring at the man across the table with his best Captain Watson glare.

Holmgren shrugged his shoulders. "I'd love to tell you, Holmes, but seeing as how I have an airtight alibi…" He threw up his hands. "It kinda ruins the story, don't you think?"

"All the trace evidence points back to you," Sherlock pressed.

"Does it now?" Holmgren sneered. "Well in that case I suggest you arrest me right away."

Sherlock did everything he could to stop himself from slamming his fists into the cocky murderer across from him. It all fit… but how did the bloody man manage to be in two places at once? He leaned over the table, putting his hands on both sides and leaning closer to Holmgren's smirking face.

"I don't know how you did it," Sherlock intoned in a low voice, "but I will figure it out and when I do… I will find you and I will end you."

"Do call before you come," Holmgren muttered cheekily. "I'll put on my best coat and hat." He gave the detective a wide, sarcastic grin. Sherlock stood up and stalked out the door, John following behind.

"That was effective," Donovan mocked as they exited. Sherlock threw her a look that was so murderous that Donovan actually flinched slightly. He strode towards the elevators, leaving John to say, "I'll call if he gets something." Lestrade nodded and watched the men exit the office.

0000000000000000000

Sherlock was lying on the couch, his head propped up on John's warm thighs and his fingers steepled under his chin in his favorite thinking position. John was absentmindedly twining his fingers in Sherlock's ebony curls, lost in his own thoughts. He looked down at the detective's face and saw the tension from the case built up in every line that crossed the pale skin. He moved his fingers out of the curls and down to his face, gently trying to massage away the tension. Sherlock hummed in pleasure, but he kept his attention focused on the details of the case, willing John's magic fingers to somehow massage the answers out.

The two companions sat like this for approximately 45 minutes before John patted his partner's cheek lightly, leaned over to kiss his lips, and then stood up from the couch. Sherlock made a sound of disapproval.

"What are you doing, John?"

"We're out of milk and bread, Sherlock. I'm going to go to the market. Maybe I'll pick us up some food on the way home, yeah? You feel like Cantonese tonight?" John picked up the menu on his way to grab his coat, looking it over.

"But John…we haven't solved the case. I need you." John almost laughed out loud when he saw the near pout on Sherlock's face.

"You're just thinking, Sherlock, you don't need me to do that!"

"Your presence soothes me," Sherlock mumbled, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.

John smiled brightly and walked over to give his brilliant companion a smooth, deep kiss on his pouty lips. "Sorry, Sherlock. But I'm hungry and you need to eat as well. If I had a clone, I'd send him to do this while I stayed home with you."

_Clone_. The word hit Sherlock like an atomic bomb, the last puzzle piece in his mind falling into place with a quiet _snick_.

"Clone…" Sherlock whispered.

"No, Sherlock, you cannot clone me. I'm afraid that global ethics committees would have a significant problem with human cloning." But John's face wrinkled into a frown as he saw the far-away look in Sherlock's eyes. That was his I'm-making-the-connection face.

John jumped when Sherlock suddenly cried, "That's it! That's how he did it!" Sherlock grabbed John's face between his hands and kissed the man's forehead before releasing him and jumping up to grab his coat.

"What are you talking about Sherlock?" John queried. "Holmgren… he didn't clone himself!"

"Of course not, John," Sherlock admonished, tying the scarf around his neck. "But what's the closest thing to human cloning that we can achieve?" He waggled his eyebrows at his partner.

John stared at him for a moment, the wheels in his mind churning. Then…it clicked. Oh.

"He's got a twin. An identical twin," John breathed. Sherlock's face split into a wide grin as he headed towards the door.

"Call Lestrade," he said. "Tell him to ask Holmgren what his twin's alibi for that night is!"

And with that, the consulting detective and his faithful blogger ran out the door and into the cool London night.


	2. I Choose You

Two: I Choose You (Sara Bareilles)

_Tell the world that we finally got it all right_

_I choose you_

_I will become yours and you will become mine_

_I choose you_

_I choose you._

The sun was beginning to set over London, painting the vibrant city with differing shades of rosy pinks, dusty purples, hearty indigos, and a kiss of mellow gold. The sight really was quite spectacular. The city of London…a humbling mix of old and new, tradition and progress, antique and modern… and the setting sun, a gentle reminder of the sheer magnitude of the universe.

Yes, the grand sight would have caused just about anyone to stop for a moment and spend a quiet minute in introspection and reflection. But as the dusky colors of twilight began to paint the inside of 221 B Baker Street, a certain army doctor that lived within couldn't be bothered to savor the peaceful moment.

No, John Watson's mind was anything but calm at the moment. I should say that he was doing his damnedest to keep his worry at bay, but he wasn't really succeeding. The doctor had invaded Afghanistan after all…surely his feathers were not easily ruffled. But alas, when it came to Sherlock Holmes, the good doctor's flat mate and companion, feathers got ruffled more easily than you might think.

John sighed as he checked his phone for the fifteenth time in the span of two minutes. He had worked an extra-long shift at the surgery today since Sherlock was case-less and so had spent the past two days alternately hunched over his microscope and serenading the neighborhood with Bach and Paganini. John had come home from the clinic fully expecting to see the man engaged in his activities, but he was instead in absentia.

This of course was not all that unusual. Sherlock was often missing for hours on end doing Sherlock-y things around London. This was the man that took pleasure in spending hours in the morgue beating corpses with riding crops and came home spattered with blood holding a deadly harpoon without an explanation.

John had sent Sherlock several text messages over the course of the afternoon to gauge his mental status (the man did not do well without the stimulation provided by either a case or John himself). He hadn't received any replies, which told John that he was most likely working with his lab equipment and was ignoring his phone.

But John had been home for four hours now and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He wasn't answering his mobile and Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen him all day. Was he being paranoid and a little clingy? Absolutely. But John had spent years working alongside this mad, brilliant man, and he'd developed a sort of sixth sense when it came to his partner. Sherlock would often disappear on his own little missions for hours, but he would usually tell John where he was going or what he was doing if he planned on being away for an exceptional amount of time. It was just sort of an unspoken thing he'd agreed to ever since he came back to the land of the living after the fall.

At the moment, John's Sherlock-sense was buzzing. Something was up.

John wandered around the flat, doing his best to bide his time until he heard something from anyone. He had left messages with Sherlock's mobile and Lestrade's and Molly's…just in case. Molly had confirmed that he hadn't been around the morgue, but there had been nothing from Lestrade. John was beginning to get a little stir-crazy. He was well aware that he was probably just being ridiculous, but then he got a text that justified all his worries.

**Get your medical bag and prepare yourself. GL**

John swallowed hard and did his best to remain cool and objective. He walked to his old bedroom and gathered his leather doctor's kit, pausing by the loo to grab a few things from the cabinet there as well. He set the bag on the coffee table and perched himself on the edge of the couch, waiting.

Not five minutes later, the sound of two men's feet echoed in the hallway. John heard Mrs. Hudson's soft "Oh Sherlock…" and steeled himself, launching directly into Dr. Watson mode. It still wasn't enough to prepare him for the sight of Lestrade dragging his companion into their flat. Sherlock had an arm thrown around Lestrade's shoulders. Lestrade had one hand clasping that arm and the other wrapped snugly around Sherlock's waist, holding him upright.

"Lay him down here," John said coolly, indicating the couch. Lestrade dragged the man over and John took up Sherlock's other side, helping him. Together they managed to get the detective's impossibly long body stretched out on the couch. "What happened?" John asked.

"Gang fight," Lestrade muttered. "Sherlock was helping us track the guys down. They jumped him and he got pretty banged up."

John nodded and kneeled down next to the detective, rolling up his sleeves and preparing to get to work. He felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, John." John stilled under the man's touch but nodded at his words. Lestrade headed out the door after first gaining John's word that he'd call and let him know how he was doing.

ZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZz

Forty minutes later, John had patched up Sherlock to the best of his abilities. The man had bruises and small cuts on his face as well as one ragged scrape that ran from his earlobe to his chin. His ribs had been bruised, but thankfully none had been broken. John had wrapped them anyway, in case they had been sprained. There were several knife wounds on his arms that he'd wrapped in thick bandages and one long, thin laceration that ran from his left shoulder to his right hip. It didn't warrant stitching…it hadn't even bled that much. But it was going to sting something fierce. Finally, Sherlock had managed to sprain his ankle, and it was taped and propped up on a pillow.

Sherlock had begun to stir just as John had come back into the living room with two steaming cups of tea. Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked up at his partner.

"Mmmm John," Sherlock whispered. "Whadappened?" His tongue felt thick and slimy, effectively slurring his words together.

"You got into a gang fight, Sherlock," John replied. His eyes were hard, glittering with some kind of emotion that didn't quite register with Sherlock. He blinked a few more times and tried to sit up. John's restraining hand on his shoulder stopped him. That's when he felt all the little nicks and bruises. Ouch.

"Is that all?" he asked, taking a sip of the tea that he found on the table beside him. John suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision, kneeling next to his head. Sherlock looked at him and was once again treated to the unreadable emotion that lingered there. It was…angry, but not outwardly. It was also fearful, but again…not outwardly.

"Is that all?" John mimicked. He barked a laugh and shook his head. "Sherlock, you can't just take off like that. You could have gotten really hurt. You're lucky you came away with just some lacerations and bruised ribs. It could have been worse."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "It was a case, John. Lestrade needed me as soon as possible. They gang-raped a young woman. It was urgent."

"I appreciate that, Sherlock. But why didn't you let me know? I would have come with you."

Sherlock frowned. "You aren't my mother, John. I don't need you watching me like I was a child."

John pressed his lips together in a thin line and blinked back the hot tears that had risen unbidden in his eyes. "Is that all I am, Sherlock? Just a…babysitter?"

Sherlock blinked. Oops. "John, no, I…" That's all the further he got before John rose and stalked off back to their bedroom, slamming the door shut.

Sherlock huffed and leaned back into the couch. _Well done, Sherlock_. He looked around and spied a staff that he'd used as a prop for a disguise during his last case. He sat up and then stood up, mindful of his taped ankle. He hopped over to the staff, grabbed it, and used it as an improvised crutch to lead him back to the bedroom. He opened the door and found John sitting on their bed, his face held in his hands.

"John," Sherlock started. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes you did," John huffed. He looked up at Sherlock and Sherlock was dismayed to find the streaks of tears cutting a path down his cheeks. "After all this time, Sherlock, don't I mean anything to you? You don't understand…you're my best friend, my partner, my…everything. You are my world, Sherlock. And I… I come in second place behind your work. I don't if I can compete with that."

Sherlock's breath hitched in his chest as he stared at his companion. He hobbled over and collapsed next to John, who automatically put a hand out to steady him. Sherlock caught his breath and then put one thin hand under John's chin and raised his doctor's eyes to meet his.

"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock intoned, staring into the deep cobalt eyes, "you are more important to me than anything I've ever known. If I had to choose between having the work and having you for the rest of my life, I would choose you. Every time."

John blinked and a small tear escaped down his cheek. "What?" he whispered.

"I mean it, John. The work drives me and stimulates me. It fulfills me to an extent, but not as much as you do. If I didn't have you, the work would be meaningless. When I left today, it was to track down a gang of filthy criminals who had gang-raped a woman. Before you, I wouldn't have felt the…sentiment appropriate to that situation. I know that I still don't understand a lot of it, and some of it I never will. But I have not for one moment regretted you. And I stand by my statement that I would choose you before the work. Every time, John." Sherlock took a deep breath. Admitting these…feelings…was not easy.

John smiled tearfully and took Sherlock's hand, lacing their fingers together. They didn't say any more, but instead chose to just look at each other, memorizing features and savoring feelings.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes?"

"I think I'm going to need you to re-tape my ankle."


	3. Night of the Hunter

Three: Night of the Hunter (Thirty Seconds to Mars)

_One night of the hunter_

_One day I will get revenge_

_One night to remember_

_One day it'll all just end._

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade took a sip of the blissfully hot coffee and relished the kick of caffeine in his system. He smacked his lips in delight and set the cup back down on his desk, cracking his fingers and preparing for the pile of paperwork on his desk. He had dived into the tall stack of files and was sorting them when Sally Donovan appeared at his door. She seemed… agitated.

"Greg," Donovan said. Lestrade raised his eyebrows. Sally never called him Greg, at least not during work hours anyway. He was just about to comment when she held up and piece of paper with spidery handwriting on it.

"We got a fax…" she said. "He's back."

Lestrade rose from his chair and walked over to her. He snatched the paper from her hands and looked at it. It was a fax and the only words that were printed on it were these:

_Come and play, Lestrade. –Duke_

Lestrade's brain stopped for a moment as he stared at the paper. There was no way…

"Where, Sally?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"Flat in central London," she answered.

"Go," he said. "Now."

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Thirty minutes later he was standing in the middle of a neat little flat staring down at the broken body on the floor. His mind was still reeling. There was no way that this was happening again…

He looked up as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson entered the flat and walked in his direction. He needed them on this one. There was no way that he was letting the bastard escape him again.

"What have you got?" Sherlock asked. When Lestrade had called, Sherlock had heard something…different in the man's voice. It was something that Sherlock had never heard before. It wasn't…uncertainty per se, and it wasn't fear either. It was a rather curious combination of both, all tinged with a barely disguised fury.

"Oliver Whittle. 39, single. He was a waiter at a local restaurant by day and an accomplished jazz pianist by night. He played gigs at the club across the street."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade as he rattled off the facts. The inspector's face was stiff and still, as if merely restraining his facial muscles would solve the crime. There was a hardness about his eyes that Sherlock had only seen once before, when they were dealing with Moriarty's bombs.

"You've seen this before, haven't you?" Sherlock queried. John shot a look at Sherlock and then at Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded. "Years and years ago, before you worked on the force. It was one of my first cases as a Detective Inspector. In the span of eight weeks, eleven jazz musicians were all brutally murdered in their homes. The killer—he was nicknamed Duke, you know, after Duke Ellington—took to taunting us. He'd send us faxes, post…all mocking our inability to catch him. That was over 11 years ago…and today we got this." Lestrade handed over the fax. Sherlock received it and the detective and the blogger read it.

"Jesus, Greg," John muttered. "Did you ever get close to him?"

The DI shook his head slowly. "Not really. After the eleventh victim he just…disappeared off the face of the planet. We hadn't heard anything from him until now."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade. "With any luck, this will be the last time you hear from him."

"Sherlock?" John asked. "I've just remembered something…"

"What is it, John?"

"Tomorrow night…there's going to be a gala affair at one of the hotels downtown. There's a world renowned jazz band that's going to be performing." John pulled out his phone and looked up the information. "Yeah, see? Wynton Marsalis, the American trumpeter and bandleader."

"You think Duke has come out of hiding for Wynton Marsalis?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know, but I think it would be hard for him to resist the pull of a musician this famous."

"Surely there will be security there…he can't honestly expect to pull off a murder with so many people around." John said.

"The art of a great disguise, John," Sherlock stated, "is knowing how to hide in plain sight."

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Greg Lestrade burst through the emergency exit and followed the tuxedoed man into the stairwell. He lowered his gun as he hustled up the stairs, hearing Sherlock and John come through the door below him and dash up the stairs after him.

"You're getting slow, old man!" Duke's taunting voice rang out in the hollow space. It lit a fire deep in Lestrade's brain and gave him an extra shot of adrenaline. His legs pumped and he took the steps three at a time.

Two minutes later, the man called Duke burst out onto the rooftop and was followed an instant later by Lestrade, Sherlock, and John. Duke dashed over to the ledge.

"Stop!" John yelled from his position behind Lestrade. Duke slowly turned around from where he stood, about two yards from the roof's edge. He had a manic grin plastered on his face and his bald head shone in the moonlight.

"I see you brought your new friends, Lestrade!" he cackled. "It's always nice having new friends to play with, isn't it?"

"The games are over, Duke!" Lestrade yelled, aiming his gun between the man's eyes. "You're mine now and you are going to rot in a prison cell for the rest of your life."

Duke crowed again, inspecting his fingernails as he did so. "I don't think so, Greg. Prison's never been my thing…" He took a step backwards towards the edge. "I think I'll just be on my way."

"Stop where you are," Lestrade warned. He heard John shuffle closer to him and he knew the man's Browning was trained on Duke too.

"You don't get it do you, Lestrade?" Duke asked. "I'm a hunter, mate! Hunters never do well in cages. And you will never get your revenge." He took another step. "Goodnight, Detective Inspector!"

Lestrade lowered his gun and squeezed off two rounds. The bullets thunked into both of Duke's knees. The man howled in pain and surprise and fell the ground, his hands scrabbling at his bloody knees. John handed his gun off to Sherlock and the three men circled Duke. John's hands were covered with the man's blood as he examined the knees. Sherlock and Lestrade kept the weapons trained on the whimpering man.

Twenty minutes later, Duke was being hauled away on a stretcher and Sherlock was giving Donovan the details of what had happened. Lestrade watched the man gesticulate excitedly and John threw in a word every now and again. He was pleased to see that Donovan wasn't giving them any grief about it.

Lestrade looked over the blinking lights of the city. Everything seemed so peaceful from here. John had told him once that when you walked with Sherlock Holmes, you saw the battlefield. Lestrade was well aware of the battlefield…he lived there. But as he gazed out on the twinkling city of London, Lestrade also felt a deep pull of satisfaction in his brain as he affirmed that today he had taken one of the villains off the battlefield.

He'd won the battle. The war…well that was still being decided.


	4. Venus

Four: Venus, the Bringer of Peace

From The Planets, composed by Gustav Holst

"Sherlock, wake up." Sherlock heard John's voice in the back of his mind, but he was really far too comfortable to be bothered with listening right now. He grunted and rolled over in the bed, ignoring John completely.

Sherlock was not, however, able to ignore John's reaction. He felt John's soft, warm lips brushing the lightest of butterfly kisses to Sherlock's exposed neck. The resulting rush of endorphins to his brain washed away the desire to sleep more. He shivered under John's touch and turned over, raising his eyebrows at the grinning man.

"Isn't it a little early to be heading out?" Sherlock asked. His voice was rumbly and deep and dressed with the heaviness of his sleep. He and John had been out in the moors of England's back country chasing an escaped convict. They'd finished the case very late last night and neither one of them had wanted to bother with driving back to the city. Instead, they'd happened upon a charming little bed and breakfast. John had been asleep within minutes of collapsing into the bed and Sherlock had surprisingly succumbed to his exhaustion as well.

"We're not leaving just quite yet. There's something I want you to see." John took Sherlock's hand and pulled it gently, urging his partner to get up. Sherlock grumbled a bit more before rolling out of the bed, grabbing the duvet and snugging it around himself.

John opened the French doors that led out to the small balcony. Sherlock followed him out and blinked a couple of times at the sight that was spread out before him. The balcony looked over some of the most beautiful English countryside that Sherlock had ever seen. The rolling hills seemed to be muted with the pale dawn light, making them seem as if they had been painted with watercolors. A warm, gentle wind was blowing through the trees that framed the scenery, the leaves shimmering quietly.

"I quite enjoy living in London," Sherlock said. "The city has never ceased to fascinate me. But this…" He trailed off, raising one hand to gesture at the scene in front of him. "This is simply magnificent."

"Is that Sherlock Holmes waxing poetic about the countryside?" John scoffed, gently elbowing the man.

"I am merely appreciating the view," Sherlock replied.

"That's not all I wanted you to see," John said. Sherlock turned to him, a questioning look gracing his elegant face. "Look there," John said, pointing into the sky just above the treeline.

Sherlock looked. In the pale blue-grey sky, Sherlock saw a star, a bright yellow star twinkling in the distance. His knowledge of the solar system was practically nonexistent, so he had to ask. "John, what am I looking at?"

"Venus," John answered, slipping an arm around Sherlock's waist. "It's the planet Venus. Venus is the planet that is second closest to the sun, right after Mercury and before Earth."

Sherlock listened in silence, grudgingly stowing the information away in a small drawer in his mind-palace where it wouldn't take up too much room.

"In Roman mythology," John continued, "Venus was the goddess of love, beauty, sex, fertility, and prosperity. It is said that Venus tempers the male humors…everything in balance as it were. Male and female, light and dark, yin and yang…" John trailed off into a reflective silence.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he asked, "Why are you telling me all these things, John? You know my knowledge of the solar system is negligible and likely to stay that way so that I have room for all the important things."

John smiled gently and leaned into Sherlock's frame and the tall man wrapped an arm around him. "You tell me such interesting things all the time. I wanted to tell you something you didn't know for a change."

Sherlock chuckled and nuzzled John's hair. "Well, thank you, John. It was a most informative experience." He paused, unsure whether he should say the thing he was thinking. _Oh, sod it_. "It was also very beautiful."

John looked up at his companion with a bemused expression on his face. "Honestly, who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock chuckled again and kissed John's forehead. The world's only consulting detective and his blogger stood in the gentle morning breeze and just watched the world awaken. And for just that brief moment, they were at peace.


	5. Take the Long Way Home

Five: Take the Long Way Home (Supertramp)

_You never see what you want to see_

_Forever playing the gallery _

_You take the long way home,_

_Take the long way home. _

Molly Hooper slammed the door of her office shut, taking a moment to lean her head against the cool paneling. It had been such a very long day and she was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She knocked her head gently against the door before pushing herself off and making her way out of the hospital. She hadn't taken more than four steps out the door when the rain began.

Molly stood there for a few minutes and just frowned up at the leaking sky. The drops were heavy and beginning to fall faster. Fantastic. She'd walked to work today and hadn't brought her umbrella. Grumbling, she turned up the collar of her coat and began to trudge through the puddles that were already forming. There was going to be an extra-large glass of wine involved in making this day go away.

She'd walked for about a block when she heard a familiar voice calling her name. She turned around and saw John Watson hurrying toward her, a black umbrella clutched in his hand. She waved and gave him a small smile. He ran over and raised the umbrella so she could slide under it.

"Molly!" John exclaimed with a bright grin on his face. The grin slipped into a frown as he looked at her. "You're all wet."

Molly barked a terse laugh at him. "Did Sherlock teach you to deduce like that?" The words were more forceful than she had intended. Her face crumpled as she watched his eyebrows attempt to crawl off his face in surprise. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to be so cruel."

"It's fine, Molly. Are you, ummm… are you okay?" John placed a comforting hand on her arm.

Molly really didn't want to burden John with her problems, but the look on the doctor's face was so kindly that she couldn't stop the flow of emotional pain she'd felt today brimming over. She hiccupped as she looked John in the eye and said, "Not really, John."

John wrapped an arm around her shoulders and said, "Aww Molly… why don't you come back to Baker Street with me and have some tea. You can tell me all about it."

"Oh John…I really couldn't… I don't want to intrude," Molly stammered.

John shook his head. "Nonsense, Molly. You are never an intrusion." And with that, John signaled for a cab and they headed off for Baker Street.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Molly was wrapped in one of Mrs. Hudson's warmest dressing gowns and her clothes were hanging on a rack by the fireplace so they could dry properly. She was seated on the end of the couch, her hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea. She felt so much more relaxed and comfortable than she had been. She threw John a warm smile as he came into the living room with his own cup of tea and took a seat in the armchair directly across from her.

"So," he said. "What seems to be troubling you, Molly?"

She chuckled darkly. "You sound like my therapist, John."

He laughed. "Don't forget, I have one too, Molly." He smiled at her. "But really, what happened to the bright, cheerful Molly that we all know?"

Molly swallowed past the lump in her throat and looked at him. "It's been a very long day, John." He looked at her expectantly, not saying anything, so she coughed and continued. "You know how…people take you for granted sometimes? I mean…not you personally, but like…just people in general?"

John smiled. "I live with Sherlock Holmes, Molly."

Molly nodded knowingly. "Of course. Well, I just… I overheard some colleagues talking about…well, not just me personally, but… women in general in…in my line of work. You know…we're too soft to handle the real doctor stuff and all that…" She paused and took a sip of her tea. She noted that John's eyes had hardened into blue sapphires and there was a little wrinkle in the skin between his eyebrows. "I just… I've worked really hard to get where I am, you know? I put a lot of effort and thought into what I do, but people always stare at me like I've got three heads when I tell them that I work in the morgue and I love it. And maybe it is a little weird, but I've always found that working in the morgue was what I am supposed to be doing. I like it there and I like the service I provide and I wouldn't want to do anything else. And then people that I work with tell me that… I'm not suited for the work I'm doing? I'm too soft for it?" Her voice choked a little and she cleared her throat, taking another swig of her tea. She looked at John and said, "I'm just tired of hearing people say that I don't count."

"You've always counted." Both Molly and John jumped at the sound of Sherlock's deep baritone echoing from the doorway. He'd come up the stairs silently and had paused on the landing when he'd heard Molly's voice. Now he swept into the flat and hung up his coat and scarf, shaking the leftover rain out of his ebony curls. He came over to John's chair and placed a chaste kiss to the top of the man's head. Then, he walked over to the couch and sat down across from Molly, staring at her intently. John watched with a small smile on his face.

"You've always counted, Molly," Sherlock repeated. "You are a competent doctor and scientist. Your methodology is practical, if a little mundane, but it gets the job done. You're good at what you do." Molly gaped at him. Sherlock had never outright insulted her, but he surely had never complimented her either…not since the night he had asked her for her help all those years ago.

"And let's not forget," John said, "that you helped save Sherlock's life during the whole…Moriarty fiasco." John's face sunk into the unconscious frown that it always did when he discussed the criminal. "Point being, you're important, Molly. And don't you forget it."

Molly tried to swallow past the lump in her throat as she looked back and forth between John and Sherlock. They really were very sweet, and the fact that she had just thought the words 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'sweet' within the same breath almost made her giggle. "Thank you…both of you. I…I really don't know what to say."

Sherlock flashed her a genuine grin that he never really shared with anyone outside of John. "You don't have to say anything." He looked at John as if for confirmation and he received a tender smile from John. Good, he'd done that right. "So… Molly do you like Chinese food?"

"What?" she queried, raising her eyebrow at him.

"I've brought home Chinese. Stay for dinner?" Sherlock gave her another small grin as he stood and gestured to the kitchen. Molly laughed and grinned back.

"I'd love to, Sherlock, thank you."

"Wonderful," John said as he went off to the kitchen to prepare the meal. Molly stood and moved to go help him, but she stopped as she felt Sherlock grip her wrist with his thin fingers.

"Molly," he murmured. "I am sorry if I have ever caused you to doubt yourself. I've always trusted you." He swallowed nervously and a faint blush rose to his cheeks. God, he hated apologizing.

Molly smiled and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. No words were needed. She threaded her arm through Sherlock's and together they made their way out to the kitchen. The food was delicious, the conversation was pleasant, and Molly found herself thankful that she had decided to take the long way home that night.

**A/N: Hopefully Sherlock isn't too out of character in this one. I like to remember that ACD's Sherlock was pretty compassionate, especially towards women and their issues. Also, not trying to cause havoc with the doctor/nurse thing…it's just a story and I needed a conflict. I have a whole family full of medical professionals.**


	6. 6 AM

Six: 6 AM (Fitz and the Tantrums)

_It's 6 in the morning, I'm still awake_

_My sleepless heart is torn up, babe_

_A love song's on the radio_

_But these words I hear, they're not for me, no.  
_

The thunder started at dawn.

Sherlock glanced at his mobile in the grey morning light of the living room. 6:00 AM. John would be waking at any moment to get ready for work. Sherlock would be left alone with his thoughts for the entire day. Normally, this would not be an issue for him. He had a number of experiments that needed working and his mind-palace was in desperate need of reorganization. A quiet day in 221 B would be just the thing to get his to-do list done.

But Sherlock was not in the mood for any of this. He'd been up all night—not particularly a hardship for him, but it had been the first night in several weeks that he hadn't been lying in bed with John. Even if he didn't sleep, Sherlock was always there…thinking, processing, or just watching his companion sleep. And somehow, John's presence was both a stimulant and sedative to Sherlock's persistent mind. John had the singular ability to both provide his brain with the influx of new data that he craved and the soothing tranquility that allowed him to rest and relax. It was perplexing and amazing.

But the last 12 hours had been incredibly taxing on Sherlock's mind and his…dare he say, his heart. He almost snarled as that thought passed through his consciousness. This is why dealing with emotions was a lower order of thinking. They served as nothing more than a distraction from the higher-order intellectualism in which he found solace. Besides, it's not like the heart muscle itself was doing any actual thinking or feeling. No, those things were happening inside him brain, running on a track that was completely perpendicular from the other lines in his head. These dreaded emotions were crossing wires with his rational self and the results were…well, this. He was curled on the couch in the fetal position and his body ached with a tension that was purely mental.

Sherlock listened to the rain. The pitter-patter of fat English raindrops eased him into the dusty corners of his mind-palace. He forced himself to track his emotional state, trying to catalog the thoughts and the feelings. Maybe, just maybe if he could make some order out of this chaos, he could start to release himself from the constrictive grip of his emotions. He dove head-first into the chattering stream of inner dialogue, trying to find something to wrestle with. He alighted first upon the feeling of fear.

Fear. Sherlock managed to get the feeling in a chokehold and began to interrogate it. Why fear? Who did he have to fear? Moriarty was dead and his band of criminal sidekicks had all been destroyed. The everyday thugs and crooks that he dealt with were nothing compared to the man who had once crowned himself king of London's felonistic domain. Mycroft? Please. Lestrade? There was always the chance that Lestrade would someday have to give in to pressures from elsewhere and release Sherlock from his work with Scotland Yard. That would be discouraging, but he hardly saw the need to fear it. Mrs. Hudson? The woman loved him like a son. John? John. His insides wriggled painfully. Okay, John then. But why was he fearful of John?

Another feeling slid past him and he lassoed it and dragged it in. Jealousy. Jealousy? Really? Sherlock was intelligent beyond comparison. He had been told by a reliable source that he possessed a unique set of genetics that rendered him quite attractive to both men and women. He had a career as a consulting detective that allowed him to chase puzzles all over England and the Continent and exercise his intellect. He had...friends, if that was what he wanted to say…Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. He had an elder brother for whom he felt an inkling of respect, even if he was a pretentious git with an affinity for umbrellas and cake. He had a brilliant, generous, and loving partner in the form of John Watson. His insides wriggled again. Okay, so…he was jealous and it involved John in some way. How was that possible? Sherlock admired the man's courage and his unwavering loyalty, but he wasn't jealous.

A third feeling reared up and almost knocked him over. He stunned it and laid it out for examination. It was a curious emotion…it made him feel…almost giddy despite his obvious emotional distress. As he isolated this particular emotion, he felt a pool of warmth in the middle of his chest and followed it as it pooled in every nook of his being from head to toe. He felt…warm and safe and happy. He'd even venture as far to say that he felt delight and joy and peace. What in the… oh. Oh…wait. This couldn't be…

Sherlock swallowed. He felt…love. Pure, sheer love in its natural form was radiating from every molecule of his being. Suddenly, it all made sense and the events of the past evening slammed into his brain and replayed. John had come home from a particularly trying day at the surgery. He'd had a young man die on him…pulmonary embolism, nothing anyone could do. John had been quite upset because the young man had left behind a new family—wife and twin children. Sherlock knew that even though John's guilt was irrational, the man would need time to process the event and get over it. So, Sherlock had done his best to be a nurturing partner. He'd made John a hot cup of tea and cradled him on the couch as they sat together and watched John's favorite movie. He'd then stretched the man out on their bed and given him a long, full-body massage to ease away all the tension. He'd pushed him into a hot shower and then sat with him as he nursed another cup of hot tea on the couch.

John had apparently been very overwhelmed by all the things Sherlock had done. He'd finished his tea and was lying in Sherlock's arms when he'd whispered the words that had caused Sherlock's brain to explode. _I love you_. Who knew that three tiny words could be so utterly disarming? Sherlock had been so stunned that he hadn't responded…and it's not like he would have been able to say anything anyway. The uncomfortable silence had settled over them for a few minutes before John had cleared his throat and gone to bed without another word.

Sherlock had been jealous of the man's ability to say these words. Upon examination, it would appear that Sherlock was indeed _in love_ with John Watson, as ridiculous as those words might seem. But it didn't stop the fact that he was. And John had been able to tell him that he loved him and by extension that he cared about him and was happy with him. Sherlock had sat there, the proverbial cat holding his tongue in a full nelson.

He'd also become very fearful in the night that his inability to say the words (especially right after) would somehow lead to John's disillusionment with him. Perhaps…one day soon he might get fed up with his sociopathic tendencies and just leave, seeking what Sherlock could not give in others. The fact that Sherlock was fearful of this and of his inability to express his true feeling for John…well, frankly he was terrified.

He knew he had to tell him. He had to tell John that he loved him or risk losing him forever. His heart gave an anxious flutter and he bit back a groan. He tried to chase the anxiety out of his mind by locking it in a closet in his mind-palace. There was no time for that. John would be up soon.

No sooner had he thought these words than the man himself made a quiet entrance into the living room of the flat. Sherlock scooted around so that he was sitting up and had his arms thrown casually over his knees. He listened to John making his tea and toast and reveled in the feeling of the man's presence through the walls. Somehow, the click of the oven knob and the rattle of the toaster gave him the courage to stand and walk into the kitchen.

The circles around John's eyes were dark and his face looked somehow paler and more lined than usual. He was sitting at the table, staring at the opposite wall, his mind clearly a thousand miles away. He jumped a little as Sherlock eased his way into his personal space. John gave him a quick glance before turning his head to the side, avoiding Sherlock's gaze entirely. Sherlock read the embarrassment, the guilt, and the fear in his body language. Clearly the man had been up all night agonizing about the same thing that Sherlock had. Sherlock chuckled a little and placed his hand under the man's chin, turning it up and over so John's startlingly blue eyes were looking into his.

"I love you too," Sherlock said, leaning over and pressing his lips against John's with a gentle insistence. Sherlock felt the man still at the touch and then relax, letting his shoulder slump. John threaded his hands into Sherlock's curls and stroked the back of his head. They both pulled away for air a moment later.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," John whispered, batting at the annoying tears that had slipped unconsciously from his eyes. He smiled at his partner.

"And I love you, John Watson," Sherlock replied. Their lips met again and that kiss held all of the things they never talked about…all the emotions they'd never discuss and all the thoughts they possessed. That kiss was not merely a passionate meeting of lips, but a joining of souls and a dive down into the rabbit hole, the promise of a journey that would take the rest of their lives.

As their kiss grew more fervent, the toast was quite forgotten.


	7. Judas

Seven: Judas (Lady GaGa)

_I'll bring him down, bring him down, down_

_A king with no crown, king with no crown. _

Mycroft Holmes burst through the double doors of the hospital wing and approached the reception desk. The short brunette that was manning the station glanced in his direction before coming out from behind to meet him.

"You would be Mr. Holmes, then? Mycroft Holmes?" she queried, putting her hands on her slim hips.

He raised his eyebrows at the diminutive woman. "Yes…"

She nodded. "This way, then." She turned on her heel and strode down the hallway. Mycroft blinked slowly, but followed her, his long strides closing the distance.

"How did…"

"They said to expect you," the woman interrupted, throwing a small smile over her shoulder. She stopped short in front of the oaken door marked 221 (how fitting) and held the door handle. "I should warn you," she said, "he's had a rather rough time. He had to have stitches here and there, he's broken his left arm in two places and dislocated that shoulder, and we had to patch up a rather nasty gash on his left thigh. It came pretty close to the artery, but he'll be okay."

"Is he conscious yet?" Mycroft asked.

She shook her head. "He wasn't the last time I checked, which was… twenty-two minutes ago. But he is not in a coma and he should snap out of it fairly soon."

Mycroft mumbled in understanding. "What about his companion?"

"He had to have a few stitches himself and is sporting a rather terrific black eye, but nothing more major than that." She opened the door and held it there for him. He mumbled his thanks and entered the darkened hospital room.

The nurse had been right…he had had a rough time. Mycroft let his eyes assess the prone form of John Watson in the dim fluorescent lighting. The rough blankets had been pulled up to his waist and his blonde head was resting on the pillow, his eyes shut and still. Mycroft could see the network of bandages and slings that had been arranged over his left arm and shoulder. There was a spectacular bruise on his jawline and a small, stitched laceration above his right eyebrow. John looked like hell.

Mycroft felt rather than saw the presence of his younger brother stirring in the shadows behind him. Sherlock appeared on his right and together, the Holmes brothers stood in silence and watched the unconscious form of John Watson. Mycroft was the first to move, turning his head to appraise his brother's condition. Yes, there was the black eye, visible in the low lighting. The normally pale skin on his face had been mottled by a remarkable blend of indigos, cobalts, and deep plums. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up and there were white bandages covering his forearms.

"So what happened, little brother?" Mycroft murmured.

"Ambush," Sherlock stated in his low baritone. "I certainly hope Lestrade's informant got his thirty pieces of silver out of that one." He watched John a moment longer before adding, "John was thrown through a plate glass window and fell eight feet to the landing."

"I was told that he almost nicked his femoral artery," Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded. "Fractured his arm in two places as well. And dislocated his shoulder."

"And what about you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock waved his hand and made a face. "Black eye and a few cuts. I'm fine."

They waited in the silence for a few minutes more. Neither brother felt the need to fill it with trivial comments or such nonsense. The Holmes brothers spoke only when there was something important that needed to be said.

"So…" Mycroft started. "Your assessment of this new…threat that seems to be encroaching on London? He seems to be filling the shoes Moriarty left rather nicely."

"She, actually," Sherlock stated. Mycroft threw him a look. "Novel, isn't it? No, this is definitely a woman's work. A brilliant woman…"

"More so than The Woman?" Mycroft inquired.

"I believe so," Sherlock murmured.

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "I will put heightened security details around Baker Street and John's clinic."

Sherlock made a face. "Why? I highly doubt this woman will try me again. I think I made it fairly clear to her where I stand."

"But as long as you stand with the angels, dear brother, she won't stop. You will need protection, and so will John."

Sherlock stared at his elder brother. "We can take care of ourselves, Mycroft." The tone was not haughty, but more embarrassed. John was Sherlock's responsibility and he would make sure that nothing happened to him.

"With all due respect, Sherlock, I'd rather not take the chance. I have already seen what a grieving John Watson looks like, and it is not something that I care to witness ever again. That being said, I would never like to think of what a grieving Sherlock Holmes would look like." Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella ever so slightly.

Sherlock scoffed lightly. "So much sentiment, Mycroft. I remember that it was you that told me that caring was not an advantage."

"But we both know that isn't quite true, don't we Sherlock?" Mycroft said. He waved his hand, encompassing the whole room. "We were told from a tender age that our emotions had no place in our lives. And yet here we stand… you and I standing together in a hospital room watching over your…partner, your lover." Mycroft paused for a moment, his head tilted to the side in thought. "John Watson has changed your life rather significantly, little brother. In a roundabout way, he has changed mine as well. Here we are, both feeling and allowing emotion to enter our neural processes…and the world has not fallen. I am just as observant as you are, Sherlock, perhaps even more. I clearly see how much John means to you and consequently how much you mean to him. It would not sit well with my conscience if something were to happen to either of you and I had done nothing to prevent it." Mycroft stopped and took a deep breath. He wondered if everyone felt so tired after admitting that they had... _feelings_.

"Well that was awfully sweet of you, Mycroft." John's croaky voice suddenly filled the room and Sherlock sprang into action, making it to his side in three strides. He ran his hand gently through his partner's hair and gave him a small smile. Mycroft moved to stand at the foot of John's bed, offering the man his own small smile.

"How are you feeling, John?" Mycroft asked.

John chuckled dryly. "I feel like I got thrown through a window, Mycroft. But I'm okay, thank you." He frowned suddenly, like there was something he was supposed to be doing and wasn't. "Sherlock? Where are my trousers?"

"John? Your trousers? They had to cut them off, you had a very severe laceration on your thigh." Sherlock rubbed a gentle thumb across his brow, easing the worry lines out.

"No, Sherlock, there was a card in my pocket. I found it lying on the ground just before that…ape of a man found me and threw me. It had a…riddle on it or something." He frowned again, trying to remember. Sherlock got up and went to the bureau, retrieving the small bag of personal items the hospital had returned. He rummaged through it and picked out the piece of creamy white stationery. He held it aloft and threw an eyebrow in John's direction, wincing as the motion pulled the bruised skin. John nodded.

Sherlock came back to the bedside and looked at the paper. The card was thick and expensive, no traces of personal logos or watermarks to be found. It was plain except for four lines drawn with violet ink. The handwriting was elegant but the poetry malicious. He read it aloud.

_How to bring down the king with no crown_

_Drunk on his own power and might_

_Who watches the watchmen, gentlemen, _

_In the middle of the cold, dark night?_

The three men stared at one another for a few minutes. Then, John began to shift uncomfortably. The stitches in his thigh had begun to sting and he was suddenly aware of a dull ache in his left arm. Sherlock noticed his twitching and buzzed for the nurse. Mycroft moved to the window and stared out into the city's lights.

Life was about to get interesting.


	8. I'm Beginning to See the Light

Eight: I'm Beginning to See the Light (Ella Fitzgerald)

_Used to ramble through the park_

_Shadowboxing in the dark_

'_til you came and caused a spark_

_That's a four-alarm fire now_

"Sherlock, where are we going?" John asked. The scarf around his eyes was beginning to itch.

"Well it wouldn't be a surprise if you knew, now would it?"

John harrumphed but kept silent. He would never admit it out loud, but he was actually a little concerned. Sherlock Holmes was about as romantic as the bloody skull that he kept on the mantle. He was affectionate, sure, and gods he knew how to…um…be intimate, but romantic? John had come to believe that Sherlock's equivalency to romance was taking the bag of fingers out of the cupboard before John had a coronary. In fact, Sherlock probably thought examining a corpse or studying body parts was perfectly romantic. There had better not be a corpse at the end of this taxi ride…

"John, there won't be any body parts, don't fret." Sherlock's voice broke into his musings, seemingly giving sound to his thoughts. John jumped and swung his head to where he guessed Sherlock's face was.

"Sherlock, how in god's name…"

"Please, John. You have a very emotive face, even if I can't see your eyes. And I happen to be very familiar with the different shapes of your lips…" He trailed off and gave a small nip at the facial feature in question with his own lips, eliciting a small gasp from the other man. Sherlock gave a low chuckle as the cab came to a stop. Sherlock tossed the cabbie some bills, grabbed the item he had brought with them, and helped a blindfolded John get out of the car.

As Sherlock led him around, John tried to tap into his Sherlock-sense to deduce where they were. He heard the wind…sounded like it was rustling through some greenery. He felt uneven ground under his feet, but it was springy and crisp…grass then. He thought perhaps off in the distance he heard children playing and a faint…splashing sound.

"Sherlock, why are we at the park?" John asked. He felt confident that's where they were at.

Sherlock chuckled. "Very good, John. You're learning."

"Kind of an occupational hazard when one works and lives with you," John teased. He felt a hand on his chest as Sherlock stopped him. He stood still, lacing his fingers behind him as he waited for Sherlock to drop the other boot. He felt his partner come up behind him and place his cool fingers on either side of his head. The taller man pressed a chaste kiss to the top of John's head and removed the blindfold in one smooth motion.

John blinked at the sudden brightness and at the scene that was laid before him. They were indeed in the park, and in a more private area by a graceful circle of beech trees. The afternoon sun was filtering down between the leaves, speckling the green grass with shades of yellow and green light. On the ground before his feet, there was a blue tartan blanket spread out and a wicker picnic basket placed in the corner.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said, a slow smile creeping onto his face, "did you bring me on a picnic in the park?"

Sherlock blinked back at him. "I fail to see what other conclusion you would have drawn, seeing as how…"

The man's words were cut off as John threw his arms around the taller man, laughing loudly and pulling the detective's face down for a smooth, passionate kiss.

"This is wonderful, Sherlock, really," John said as he came up for air. He gave his companion a huge smile and pulled away so that he could sit down on the blanket.

Sherlock's face lit up in a delicate pink and he sat down too. "Mrs. Hudson helped me pack the basket," he said.

The world's only consulting detective and his faithful blogger enjoyed their meal under the shade of the beech trees. Sherlock dutifully ate everything that John handed him and he didn't complain once. They had finished and were sitting in companionable silence for some time when Sherlock spoke again.

"I used to come to this spot when I was a younger man," he reflected. "There's something about these beech trees…"

"Hmmm…" John agreed. Sherlock was leaning back against one of the aforementioned trees and John was leaning into Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "I used to come here and use cocaine.'' He felt John's body stiffen and heard his breath catch in his throat. His drug use was no secret to John, but he'd never talked about it outright.

"Why?" John asked.

"Well…there's just something about these beech trees…" Sherlock replied.

"No, I meant…why did you use cocaine?" John clarified. He shifted slightly so that he could look up into Sherlock's clear blue-grey gaze.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Our brains are like biochemical computers. They say we only use ten percent of our brains on a daily basis, but this is simply not true. We use a great deal more than that, and some of us are wired to think in more complex settings than others. If normal people operate on the level of your average laptop computer, I operate at the level of a Cray supercomputer. My mind sees connections that others miss. I crave the details that others can't be bothered with. Most people are either big-picture people or detail oriented. I see it all. I can observe the small details—say, your military haircut, your tan lines, your posture—and I can connect it to the bigger picture—your military service. I can then also make inductions about where you were and what you did from those deductions."

He paused for a moment to take a sip of water from the bottle by his side. "As such, the world becomes both my playground and my prison. A mind like mine cannot simply be idle…it doesn't know how to do that. Perhaps this is a natural instinct, perhaps it is a learned behavior. I am not sure. But I do know that my mind craves constant input. I always need something to think about so that I don't…go mad. When there is nothing to occupy my mind, I become overstimulated by all of the information rattling around up there. Everything that I know…which is quite a vast amount of information…begins to attack at my sensory input. It gets so loud sometimes, John…so very loud."

He paused again, tilting his head back to look at the canopy of leaves above him. He felt John press a little closer to his body, gently urging him on. "The cocaine gave my mind something to focus on. The morphine used to slow it down, but the cocaine was so much more…stimulating. My brain would focus on the effects of the drug and everything would be sated. I would come to this place and just lie here for hours. There's something about these beech trees, I'm telling you." He fell silent and watched the sunlight play with the colors in John's hair.

"So why did you bring me to this place?" John asked, gesturing at the area. "Don't get me wrong, this is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me, but…why here?"

Sherlock considered his words. "I used to come here because the cocaine was the only thing that gave my mind the things it craved and this was the place I liked to be. But now I am coming here because I have far better things with which to occupy my mind. I have the work, which has given me a chance to solve crimes and exercise my skills in a…healthy manner. More importantly, I have you now, my faithful blogger and partner. I have not felt the need to turn to cocaine or morphine once since you came into my life all those years ago. This is my way of…saying thank you." Sherlock fell silent and huffed a huge breath. He still wasn't used to sharing all these…feelings.

After a few moments, Sherlock leaned over so that he could look at John. He was startled to find quiet tears pouring from the man's sapphire eyes. He shuffled the man's body around so he could look at him properly.

"John! What's wrong?"

John laughed and put his hands up. "I'm fine! I'm fine, really, I just…" The smile on his face could have illuminated the entirety of London. "That was the sappiest and most beautiful thing I have ever heard in my entire life, and it came from the lips of Sherlock Holmes! What is the world coming to?!" He leaned forward to kiss his partner's beautiful face, reveling in the feeling of the man's smile under his lips.

They both released and settled back into their original positions. Sherlock felt all the tension in his body drain away and seep into the ground below him.

"I love you, John," Sherlock said as he watched the breeze play with the leaves of the tree.

"I love you too, Sherlock," John replied as he felt the beat of his partner's heart in his ear.


	9. The Phoenix

Nine: The Phoenix (Fall Out Boy)

_Wearing our vintage misery_

_No, I think it looked a little better on me_

_I'm gonna change you, like a remix, _

_And I'll raise you, like a phoenix._

Sally Donovan slowly cracked open her eyes and blinked a couple of times, allowing her pupils to react to the dim light. She tried to take a couple of deep breaths, hissing softly when her ribs spasmed in protest and began to throb painfully. Okay, couple ribs busted in some manner, then. Her tongue felt thick and coated with sawdust and she swallowed a couple of times to try to force saliva down her dry throat.

She was lying on her back, staring at a dirty stone ceiling. The floor under her back felt like packed earth. She allowed her eyes to travel left and right, and she appraised the dimensions of the room by doing so. The air was stagnant and smelled of damp soil and mildew. There was no natural lighting, but there was a small, old-fashioned oil lamp in the far corner of the room. Okay. So she was in a tiny room underground somewhere with only an oil-lamp and…

A small sound to her left interrupted her appraisal. She turned her head in the direction of the noise and saw a lump of dark matter lying there. The light from the lamp only gave her the impression of a dark coat and dark trousers. The other human groaned slightly and Sally froze. That low baritone voice could only belong to one person.

_Fantastic_.

0000000000000

Sherlock Holmes was first aware of an intense throbbing in the back of his head. He shifted slightly, trying to find a better spot for his head. But the movement only served to intensify the pain, causing a groan to escape his lips before he could stop it. He blinked open his eyes and looked around.

He was lying on his left side and facing a blank stone wall. The stones were crumbly and old and covered with little patches of mold. The floor under him felt like compacted earth and smelled as such. There was a tiny flickering of dark yellow light that seemed to be coming from the opposite corner of the room. He could smell the oil from the lamp mixed in with the scent of the earth around him. He could see a small wooden door to his right.

Sherlock stretched his hands out in front of him and was going to attempt to right himself when he heard a familiar voice echo over his right shoulder. It almost made him groan again.

"Well, freak, what have you gotten us into this time?"

0000000000000

"John, you have to calm down, we've got-'''

"Calm down?! You can't bloody well expect me to just calm down, Lestrade! Sherlock is-'''

"I'm well aware of where Sherlock bloody Holmes is, Doctor Watson. In case you've forgotten, he's in the same mess that Donovan's in."

"… … Jesus. I'm sorry, Greg. I'm just worried."

"Yeah, well that makes two of us, John."

"Have we got anything to go on?"

"Anderson managed to read the number plate before he passed out. Whoever took Holmes and Donovan also dropped one of the syringes they used. It's in the lab now being tested."

"Okay. I've put in a call to Mycroft; he's got his people sniffing around. He should be here any minute, actually."

"Okay, I'm going to-'''

"John, would you care to tell me what's going on?"

"Ah, Mycroft. Greg, you remember Mycroft Holmes?"

"How could I forget."

"Detective Inspector, is there any new information that's come to light?"

"We've got the van on CCTV at 22:31, but that's the last we've-'''

"That was over three hours ago, Detective Inspector."

"We're working on it Mycroft…Greg's been doing everything he can. One of his people was taken too."

"… Well then what are we all standing around for?"

000000000000

Sherlock rolled over to face Sally Donovan, ignoring the pain in his head and the slight nausea that had arisen with his movement. She was on the ground as well, but she had propped herself up on one elbow. Her face was dirty and there was a long cut under her eye, but other than that, she seemed to be intact. She was giving him a dirty look. He ignored it.

"Donovan. Are you okay?"

"Since when do you care?" The words were thrown with haughty nonchalance, but Sherlock could hear the exhaustion and pain in her voice.

"Since now. Are you injured?"

There was a pause. "I think I've broken a few ribs. It hurts to breathe." Her voice was tinier and less rude. "What about you?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock tried to believe his own statement as he ignored the dull roar coming from the back of his head.

"Liar," she said. "I heard you groaning."

He sighed. "I believe someone hit me on the back of the head with something very hard… more likely kicked me, I suppose. Feels like a steel-toed boot."

Sally sniffed and tried to sit up. She hissed again as her ribs protested. Sherlock sighed again and scooted closer to her, forcing himself up on his knees. He hunched his shoulders slightly as the sand in his head shifted, the nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He put a hand on Sally's shoulder and tried to push her back down. She flinched.

"Don't," she muttered.

"Donovan, as much as I abhor the thought, I do believe I should take a look at your ribs. If we don't set them, they might poke at something important. And I cannot help internal bleeding in a cottage basement." He shuffled over to grab the oil lamp. It felt heavy, so there was still some oil in it yet. He brought the lamp back over and set it down beside them.

"I don't think so, freak," she spat, wrapping her arms a little tighter around her frame.

"Donovan." His voice was ice. "We really don't have time for this."

Sally glared at him, but then rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh under his unblinking gaze and raised eyebrow. She lay back down and lifted the hem of her shirt to expose her ribcage. She blushed a violent shade of magenta, but thankfully it was dark and Sherlock missed it.

"I swear, if you tell anyo-oww, ow!" She cursed as his cold fingers gently prodded at her ribs. She whimpered slightly and she watched the great Sherlock Holmes flash her a look of…was that concern she saw? There was no way this freak was actually concerned about her well-being. She blinked back tears as the sharp stabs of pain receded.

"My apologies," he murmured. "I believe you have fractured at least two ribs…possibly more, but I can't tell." He muttered a few things under his breath as he unwound the blue scarf from around his neck. He held the fabric aloft. "Donovan, I need to tie this around your abdomen. I am going to need you to stand for me."

She sighed again, throwing another glare at him, but she gripped the forearm he offered her and together they made the painful attempt to stand. They both slumped against the far wall, breathing heavily. Sally's ribs were aching and Sherlock's head was pulsating in time with his heartbeat.

"Right," Sherlock said after a moment. "Let's get this over with, shall we?" Sally had no biting retort to offer him. She merely lifted the hem of her shirt once more, exposing the bruised façade to the detective. He wrapped the scarf around her as tightly as he could manage. He knotted the ends of the cloth and she lowered her shirt, wincing as it went. They sat back down, their backs pressed against the wall.

A few minutes passed in silence before Sally muttered, "Thank you…Sherlock."

0000000000000

"Anything?"

"We found the van, it was abandoned just off the motorway."

"No signs of them?"

"We found Sally's mobile…must have fallen out of her pocket. Other than that…it was clean. They must have transferred them…"

"Yes, into a white sedan, we've got it on tape."

"How'd you manage that?"

"Lestrade, the man could probably get surveillance on Father Christmas, if you wanted."

"We tried once, he got away."

"…"

"…"

"Mycroft, did you just make a joke?"

"I hardly think this is a time for jokes, John."

"Yeah but… oh never mind."

"I'm going to send some of my people back to the scene of the crime once more, just in case we missed something."

"I will send mine to the point of transference and see if yours missed anything."

"Now wait just a-'''

"That's it."

"What? What do you mean, John?"

"Scene of the crime! Lestrade, we just busted a sex trafficking operation, which-'''

"-leaves several sodding criminals without a source of income, meaning they would be seeking-'''

"-revenge. You don't think…"

"I do think. We've got to get back to that cottage, Lestrade."

000000000000

The silence in the darkened room had stretched for what seemed like hours. Both of their mobiles were missing, although Sherlock doubted they'd have gotten a signal down here anyway. They were sitting against the back wall, a good four feet apart from one another, lost in their thoughts.

"Where are we, then?" Sally asked, breaking the stillness around them. It was beginning to drive her mad.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock queried.

"No…" Sally replied. "I know we're underground, but that's about all I can tell you."

Sherlock sighed. "We're in the basement of the cottage we recently raided."

"What, for the sex trafficking thing? That cottage?"

"Of course, don't you recognize the soil composition and the texture of the stone around us? It's completely unique to this area."

Sally scoffed. "Of course it is." They lapsed into a lengthy silence once more.

"Donovan," Sherlock said, his voice quiet, "how long were you abused as a child?"

Sally spluttered in the low light, her face blushing crimson again. Sherlock bloody Holmes! "Why would you ask me something like that?!"

"I believe the phrase is…just trying to pass the time."

"Yeah, well, that's when you ask about the weather or a football match."

Sherlock frowned. "I hardly see how I could do that since I am unable to observe the weather and I do not care about football matches."

"Yes, well, you don't just go off deducing people's lives and then asking them personal questions like that!" She made to cross her arms angrily, but the motion jostled her bruised torso, making her hiss in pain.

Sherlock considered for a moment. "I'm sorry, Donovan. I just thought…"

She laughed darkly. "Thought I might enjoy spilling my dark childhood secrets while I'm trapped in a basement with Sherlock Holmes? No thank you."

Sherlock surprised her when he took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt. He twisted his arm a little so that she could see it in the yellow lamplight. There was a jagged white scar on the underside of his right arm. It was thin, but ran almost the whole way from wrist to elbow. She looked from it and raised her eyes to meet his, a questioning eyebrow raised in the air.

"My father threw a knife at my head when I was ten," he said coolly. "This happened as I attempted to shield my face." He rolled the sleeve back down and put his coat back on. Sally was confused.

"Why are you telling me these things? And asking me these things? I don't understand."

Sherlock's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "John Watson has taught me a great many things, Donovan. You are an insufferable idiot, like most of your compatriots at the Yard, but as I foresee that we will be working together for quite some time, I believe that we should attempt to…what is that phrase? Let bygones be bygones."

Sally snorted in disbelief. "I don't buy it, Holmes."

He sniffed. "Whether or not you 'buy' it is irrelevant. I think it is foolish that we continue to fight like schoolchildren in the sandbox." He paused a second before adding in an undertone, "I may have also lost a bet with John."

Sally sat in silence, trying to process what was going on. God help her she thoroughly disliked this man, disliked his haughtiness and his arrogance, not to mention his insufferable rudeness and his enormous superiority complex. But not even Sally Donovan could deny the changes that had been made over the past few years thanks to John Watson. She didn't understand how the man did it, but Sherlock's overall demeanor had…softened somehow. He was still an arrogant sod, but he was less so than he had been before John.

The silence had stretched on for a time before Sally Donovan finally said, "It started for me when I was eleven…"

00000000000000

Sherlock and Sally had been sitting in total darkness for about 20 minutes. The lamp had finally given out and plunged them into the utter inky blackness. The two had shuffled to sit closer together out of a silent but mutual need for reassurance that one often finds themselves in need of in the dark. Sally was attempting to lower her heart rate when she heard a faint scratching sound coming from the door.

"Sherlock?" she whispered. He laid a gentle hand on her arm and then tugged insistently. They both stood.

The door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man with sallow skin and a hooked nose. He had long, greasy blonde hair and he was carrying a shovel and a length of rope. He leered at them with crooked, yellow teeth. He moved aside to allow four more men to enter the room, effectively crowding the space. Two of them lunged forward at a motion from the blonde man and grabbed Sally. She tried to fight them off, but the motions hurt her more than them. She doubled over in pain as the two minions caught her arms and forced them behind her back. She looked over and saw that Sherlock had likewise been restrained, but the blonde man's focus was on Sally.

The man pulled a lethal looking knife out of a sheath at his waist. It gleamed dully in the light of the men's lanterns. With one clean motion, he used the knife to effectively slice the buttons off of Sally's shirt. He pulled the fabric back off her chest and sneered in lecherous appreciation. Sally was struggling to maintain her composure, but she couldn't stop the tears from leaking from her eyes. Her gaze traveled over to where Sherlock Holmes was kneeling. She read several things in his hard stare, but she tried to leech some strength from the cold determination she saw there.

Sherlock Holmes spat at the blonde man's feet. The man looked up from Sally and took a few slow steps towards him. The blonde man swung his fist, connecting solidly with Sherlock's cheekbone, the signet ring on his finger leaving a bloody gash. Sherlock's head slumped, but the blonde man forced it up again, playing the tip of the sharp knife teasingly over the skin on Sherlock's face.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Sherlock's heart leaped in his chest as he heard John Watson's voice ring out in the small basement room.

0000000000000

As they loaded Sally Donovan into the back of the ambulance, no one witnessed the look that she shared with Sherlock Holmes from across the way. For once, it was not a look filled with hostility, resentment, or anger. It was instead a look of mutual understanding and just a touch…a touch, mind you, of genuine gratitude.


	10. Sing Me to Heaven

Ten: Sing Me to Heaven (Adoramus Vocal Ensemble)

_If you would mourn me _

_And bring me to God._

_Sing me a requiem_

_Sing me to Heaven. _

John cinched his tie around his neck as another wave of tears splashed down his cheeks. He stilled for a moment, allowing his sorrow to billow up around him like the sail of a ship around its mast. He looked up into the mirror, watching as the salty liquid cut tracks down his cheeks. In the back of his mind, he heard his father's voice cursing at him. _Men never cry_, he used to say. Well, John Watson knew that was utter bollocks. He returned his attention to his tie.

Movement in the mirror caught his eye, and he looked up again to see Sherlock Holmes move up behind him with all the silent grace of a feline. John saw that Sherlock's eyes were rimmed with red and slightly puffy. They stared at each other in the mirror for a while before Sherlock dropped his gaze. He leaned over and wrapped his long arms around John's middle, burying his face in the junction of his neck and shoulder. John leaned his head back into Sherlock's dark curls and rested his own hands on the man's spindly arms. In the mirror, he looked at the identical silver bands that adorned both of their ring fingers and allowed the embrace of the cool silver metal to swallow his heart.

Finally, John sniffed and pressed a long kiss into Sherlock's hair and the two men parted. They went to the living room and gathered their coats, checking their pockets for mobiles and wallets and the like. John retreated to the kitchen to pick up the large bouquet of white lilies. Sherlock appeared behind him momentarily, leaning over the table and gripping the edges with his hands.

"John," he choked. "I don't think I can do this." His eyes were dry but the voice was filled with quiet desperation and hollow sorrow.

John laid a soft hand on his lover's cheek, caressing the cheekbone with a calloused thumb. He didn't feel the need to say anything. Frankly, he didn't trust his voice at the moment anyway, knowing that it would be weak and sad just like Sherlock's. Instead, he spent a few moments tenderly rubbing Sherlock's cheek, trying to impart strength on the man even though he had none himself.

Sherlock sighed deeply and then put his hand up to meet John's hand. He laced their fingers together and then lowered them, squeezing tightly. John squeezed back just as tight and together the two men exited their flat and went down the stairs. As they happened upon the hallway that led to Mrs. Hudson's door, they both stopped, the air suddenly too thick around them.

John looked at the dull brass numbers on the door. 221 A, home of Martha Hudson; their landlady, their surrogate mother, and most definitely not their housekeeper. A wave of memories washed over the consulting detective and his blogger as they stood outside her door.

_There's two bedrooms, if you'll be needing two, that is._

_You rest your leg, I'll get you that cuppa. _

_How about those suicides then, Sherlock?_

_It's okay dear, I've got a hip._

_All excited about a murder, it isn't decent._

_I'm putting this on your rent, young man._

_I'm in my nighty!_

_I had to sign for it, funny name…German._

_Sherlock! How good to see you. _

_I'm not your housekeeper. _

"Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall," Sherlock choked out in a whispery voice. That's when John lost it.

0000000000000

Two hours later, there was a small gathering in a small cemetery in a small, out of the way place outside of London. The weak spring sunshine was filtering through small wisps of cirrus clouds and there were birds singing in the trees, the rich scent of pine filling the air. The world around the little party was filled with light and hope and the promise of new beginnings. But the people gathering around the grave of Martha Hudson were hard-pressed to see those things.

John glanced around at the small assembly of people. He and Sherlock were there, of course, as were Mycroft and Anthea. Lestrade was there, standing beside Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson's sister. Her son would be flying in to Heathrow tomorrow to take care of her estate. It was the soonest he could get away.

Mrs. Turner began to speak first and was followed by Mrs. Hudson's sister. The two elderly women turned and walked away from the grave, unable to hold themselves together. The five people that were left looked at each other, no one trusting themselves to step forward to speak. Sherlock stepped forward and laid the lilies they had brought on top of the simple pine casket.

What happened next surprised everyone.

John began to sing. He wasn't a great singer, but he was good enough. He was surprised when his voice ascended smoothly into song without a hitch or a blip anywhere. His smooth tenor voice lifted into what he knew to be Mrs. Hudson's favorite hymn. _It's sad_, she had once told him, _but I just like the way it sounds_.

_When peace like a river attendeth my way,_

John's voice only hitched slightly when he heard Sherlock's silky baritone come in at the next bar in a perfect harmony.

_When sorrows like sea billows roll. _

The two men's voices rose on the soft breeze. A tear rolled down Anthea's cheek.

_Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,_

_It is well, it is well, with my soul. _

The world's only consulting detective and his blogger sang the chorus and another verse of the hymn, their voices blending and complimenting almost as well as their personalities. Together, hand in hand and under the watchful eyes of their friends, they sang their beloved Mrs. Hudson to heaven.

After they had finished, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Anthea had silently retreated, leaving Sherlock and John alone at the grave. John took Sherlock's hand and together they stood in companionable silence. And then, they turned to leave.

About ten steps from the grave, John stopped to look back. There was the simple grey headstone, smooth and etched with the name Martha Hudson. But John's eyes traveled to the headstone that sat next to hers. It was a glossy ebony color with the name 'Sherlock Holmes' printed in muted gold lettering. John squeezed his hand, just to reassure himself that the man was actually standing next to him. Sherlock squeezed his hand back and then pulled the shorter man into his strong embrace.

They stood like that for quite some time. No words were exchanged. After all this time…they hardly needed to. And as they stood in the hallowed meadow, a soft, warm breeze filled with the scent of pine and hope wrapped around them, nestling the two men in a gentle embrace.

**A/N: Wow, what HAVE I done? That was…just not cool. Ach! So much angst. **

**Well, that's the end, folks. If you've been reading along, THANK YOU SO MUCH! It's been a pleasure. I'm taking the time to expand upon some of the story lines I carved out for this fic (****not**** the one where Mrs. Hudson dies, no worries), so please feel free to look for those in the upcoming days. Again, if you've been reading, following, favoriting, or all of the above, thank you so much. :-) **


End file.
